


granite

by onceuponamoon



Series: abo jt/ebs [17]
Category: Hockey RPF, Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Kitchen Sex, Knotting, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 18:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16392671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamoon/pseuds/onceuponamoon
Summary: “Remember a couple of weeks ago,” John says, dropping his gear bag to the foyer floor.  Their luggage is just going to stay in the laundry room for the time being; he’ll deal with it when he’s less exhausted, less angry.  “When we actuallywona game.”  He lets the frustration roll off his shoulders, and uses his foot to nudge his bag through to the front closet.





	granite

**Author's Note:**

> taking a brief to post this before getting back to [answering asks](https://onceuponamoonfic.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> (feel free to keep 'em coming, y'all. world building is so much fun!!!!)

**February 2018**

 

“Remember a couple of weeks ago,” John says, dropping his gear bag to the foyer floor. Their luggage is just going to stay in the laundry room for the time being; he’ll deal with it when he’s less exhausted, less angry. “When we actually _won_ a game.” He lets the frustration roll off his shoulders, and uses his foot to nudge his bag through to the front closet.

Jordan shuffles behind him, scent amused at the rarely displayed childish antics, hands him his own bag when John reaches back for it. “Mm, right after Valentine’s Day,” he says, scent deepening with smugness. “Think maybe we had a little something to do with that magic.”

John snorts, rights himself and shuts the closet door. “We ate dinner on the couch and fell asleep before we could even have sex,” he says, following Jordan into the kitchen.

“Yeah, but that _morning_ \--”

“When you almost made us late?”

Flapping a hand, Jordan says, “That’s beside the point.” He hops up onto the corner counter beneath the cabinets, legs spread wide so that his calf rests on the granite and the other dangles towards the floor.

John rounds the island, heads to the fridge to pull out ingredients for shakes. As always, he laughs when Jordan wrinkles his nose at the kale and points at the proffered bag of spinach instead.

“So then what was the point?” John asks, tossing the bag to Jordan, who tosses it onto the island. 

“The _point_ ,” Jordan starts -- but then trails off to answer a text message, probably from Barzy who kept insisting that he listen to some new rap album: something that Jordan refuses to do, even if he does occasionally like certain songs. 

(John can’t believes he’s going to marry someone who unironically loves Nickelback.) 

He taps on his phone and John...watches him, indulging himself for a moment.

Jordan’s still in his slacks and button-down from the plane, hair fluffy from being wet and then snoozed on. Though his jacket was discarded with the luggage, he’s got the sleeves of the shirt rolled up, a handful of the top buttons undone enough that his bond bite is visible. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about it -- John’s even half put-together in exactly the same way -- but something about the juxtaposition, the way he looks so relaxed in his gameday suit, sprawled on the counter without a care in the world...it hits John right in the gut just like a surprise heat.

His scent must round out, because Jordan looks up, quirks a thick brow, and then taps furiously before hitting send. 

John grabs the ice bucket out of the freezer, closes the door, and goes to join all of his amassed ingredients, ready to get them a hefty dose of protein to keep their bellies full through the night. He doesn’t bother adjusting himself in his pants: _let him see_ , he thinks, letting the arousal roll through him. 

“The _point_ ,” Jordan eventually restarts, “is that we had some giggly, carefree sex and -- maybe all we need is some of that again and we’ll win.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” John says, pointing a finger and raising a brow before upending the bag of spinach into a strainer and running the tap, “Don’t you dare try to tie our sex life in with hockey like that. Reward system, sure. But that? That’s a dangerous path.”

“What?!” Jordan says around a laugh, “How’s it dangerous?”

“Because then we’ll start to get weird superstitions and it’ll take the fun out of it.”

Jordan snickers, tilting his head in concession. “Okay, fair.” Then, with a sly look, he says, “That what your pal Sidney does?”

Huffing a laugh, John says, “No comment,” because he _knows_ , and he’s not going to let Jordan’s puppy eyes pressure him into telling. “Hand me the protein powder?”

Jordan pulls it from behind his back where it’s tucked into the corner next to a couple of cookbooks, but then withholds it. “For a kiss. Since you won’t share your insider knowledge.”

Though he rolls his eyes, John obliges, sidling up between Jordan’s splayed legs. He rests his hands on Jordan’s thighs, thick and hot beneath his palms, and tilts his chin up, biting at the smile threatening to play across his lips. “You’re a little shit, you know that?” he says. Still, he leans in, presses a kiss to Jordan’s smirk.

It shouldn’t turn into anything. Not this late at night. Not when they’re both exhausted enough from the games and the planes that they should just get these protein shakes in them and go straight to bed.

But --

John finds one of his hands trailing the inseam of Jordan’s pants regardless of good sense, thumbing at the soft, sensitive skin of his inner thigh encased by his slacks. It makes Jordan loose a soft groan, makes him tug John in closer, very nearly rough with him. John bites down on Jordan’s lower lip in warning and smiles into the kiss when Jordan hisses in a harsh breath.

“This is nice,” Jordan muses, a little breathlessly, “Being taller for once.”

Laughing, John knocks his forehead against Jordan’s collarbone and -- yep, there his hands go again, undoing the zip and button of Jordan’s pants. “You’re the alpha and you’re older; you don’t get to be taller too.”

“Says who?” Jordan retorts, low and teasing. His breath hitches when John gets a handful, gives a nice, firm stroke through his underwear.

“ _Me_.” John tugs him free, reveling in the velvety smooth slide of his thickened cock in his hand.

Jordan hums a low noise, edging on a growl, and tilts John’s head back up so that he can kiss him. It’s softer than John expects, but no less full of heat and perfect enough to have his knees threatening to tremble. He goes with it when Jordan crowds forward, nudging him away from the counter, and uses the momentum to settle back against the island.

He watches Jordan hop down from the counter, dick bobbing like a buoy before Jordan cradles it with a hand, hissing an, “Ah,” and then, “zippers.”

John laughs, though it’s cut short by Jordan crowding him against the counter, leaning up to kiss him quiet. 

And though making out is one of John’s favorite activities, he finds his hands and focus drifting once more, urging things -- things he wants, viscerally, but hasn’t begun to articulate even to himself -- inexorably forward. He tugs Jordan closer by the hips and moans at the barest hint of friction provided by his stomach. 

A harsh sigh rushes out of John. He says, “Wanna fuck me,” between kisses, but it’s less of a question than it is a statement, an imperative. 

The rush of apples and vanilla stopper up whatever rational sense is left in John’s brain and Jordan’s smirky grin registers on _some_ plane, just momentarily, before John’s working at his own belt and pants, sliding them along with his underwear down to his knees before turning, bracing himself against the counter.

“Alpha,” he says, a deep thing that makes his chest rumble like the echo of a purr. “Pl--”

“You don’t even have to ask, Johnny, _fuck_ ,” Jordan says.

But he doesn’t _do_ anything, and when John looks back over his shoulder, he’s just stroking his dick with his eyes trained on John’s ass. 

John’s scent must spike with irritation, because Jordan gives half a cough and then pets over his hip, soothing.

“I’ve gotcha, babe,” he says, edging on a growl, “Promise.”

Without preamble, he sinks two fingers into John’s ass, slow and careful and thick enough to have John slumping forward onto the counter and purring. He twists them, gritting out something harsh that goes mostly unheard by John because he’s too busy panting and scrabbling out for _something_ to brace himself against, to work himself back as slick starts slipping down his thighs around Jordan’s fingers. 

He keens when Jordan pulls them out.

“Up, up,” Jordan’s saying when John clues back in, “Onto the counter.”

“I -- what?”

“Let me eat you out first, babe,” he says above the thick, wet sounds of him _very clearly_ jerking himself off using John’s slick. At the very least, he’s enterprising enough to help John step out of his tangled clothes before helping him up onto the counter.

John hoists himself up, shoving aside the nearly empty fruit bowl before shifting onto his elbows and knees. The granite’s ungiving, but cool against his overheated skin, a blessed savior as he prostrates himself and waits. 

Jordan’s rumbling growl nears and then he clears his throat, says, “ _Fuck_ , Johnny.”

John folds his legs up beneath him so that he can better present himself. He reaches back, chest against the granite, and spreads himself open so that Jordan can’t mistake where and what he’s supposed to be doing. He purrs, as if that’ll offer more enticement. 

“ _Look_ at you,” Jordan says. “I’m not even going to ask, but _god_. I’d make that my background. Your contact pic. My screensaver. I’d tattoo it to my fucking inner eyelids, Johnny, I swear to god.”

A little thrill of panic mingles with excitement and humiliation and about ten other emotions that have John’s stomach tightening, slick trickling down his skin. His brain is all loud, shocky static, but he still manages a, “ _Jordan._ ”

“I know, I know.” It’s soft, almost absent.

His hand are gentle, touch still too soft and awed to do much more than tease John, but he’s reverent; he worships with his palms, and then with his mouth. His lips drag down the line of John’s crack until his stubbled chin is nearly at John’s hole -- and then changes direction, nudging John’s hands away so that _he’s_ the one holding him open, squeezing his ass and breathing hot against his skin. It’s a gasp, a sigh, and then he’s kissing so lightly at John’s sac, licking and then _sucking_ , and John’s --

He stares sightlessly at the kitchen counter, throat working as he tries to drily swallow around a purr.

Jordan hums, growls maybe, and uses the point of his tongue to drag pressure up along John’s taint. 

John feels himself blurt a bit of precome onto the countertop, his dick smearing into it when he shifts his hips as Jordan finally -- _finally_ \-- starts to lick him open. Moaning, John slaps his palms to the counter to brace himself against Jordan’s enthusiasm and -- he just takes it. Simple, uncomplicated, and anchored by his alpha’s hands.

At the two thick fingers stretching him wider for Jordan’s tongue, John’s breath stutters in his throat. “Fuck,” John hears himself say, before lapsing into purrs. He’s not full, but _filled_ , and Jordan’s not -- he’s not even really _doing_ anything with them, but John feels half crazy with how good he feels already.

Jordan rumbles a noise against his hole and then pulls off with a thick, wet noise. “Fuck, fuck,” he says, letting his fingers fall free, “Come here, Johnny, fuck.”

He tugs at John’s hips before John can even process the request, and then he’s helping, clambering down from the counter onto weak legs and into Jordan’s arms, into a slick -- because of _his_ slick coating Jordan’s mouth and cheeks and chin -- kiss. Jordan kisses him, makes him weak, reaches around John’s sides to grip and tug at his ass before abruptly ending it; he turns John around, asks, “This good?”

Cheek against the granite, John nods, gravels out a, “Yeah,” that’s deep enough to make Jordan swear.

He slides in until his hips cradle John’s ass and they’re both -- it’s --

Jordan slumps over John’s back, warming him and filling him and trying to either mouth or grind his teeth into John’s skin through the fabric of his shirt -- John can’t tell. He’s...a little overwhelmed and definitely overheated.

“Take it off,” John says, and when Jordan goes to reach for the lowermost button, he says again, “No, take it _off_.” There are probably other words he could use, but he’s -- 

Jordan doesn’t need to be told a third time. He grabs either panel and yanks; buttons go skittering across the tile. Pushing at the fabric of first one arm and then the other, Jordan helps John the rest of the way out of his shirt. It hasn’t even dropped to the floor before Jordan’s snapping his hips and pressing open-mouthed kisses to John’s shoulder blades. He sniffs at the back of John’s neck, says, “Oh, _fuck_ ,” and redoubles his efforts, fucking John deep and steady.

He’s -- John thinks he’s --

“ _There_.” He gasps, heaving in an unsteady breath that shivers out of him when Jordan hits him at the same angle. “That’s -- please, I’m -- _alpha._ ” 

John feels Jordan’s grin, right in the center of his back. 

“Got you, baby,” Jordan’s saying, barely audible over John’s keening, John’s scrabbling palm caroming the fruit bowl and remaining apples clear off the counter. “God, look at you.”

John -- he has to squeeze his eyes shut, has to breathe deeply into the molten sensations: Jordan's hands at his hips, lips at his spine, cock glancing against his prostate again and again and again. It’s -- it doesn’t quite _roar_ through him so much as it sluggishly creeps up the base of his spine and into the bottom of his gut like the viscous flow of lava. 

His breath leaves him in a rush, suspended as he comes, head sparking.

Faintly, he hears Jordan’s, “Oh, _fuck_ ,” and feels his legs tremble harder as Jordan starts to come, knot catching as he groans loudly into the skin of John’s back.

“Oh, my god,” John wheezes, fingers and toes and everything in between tingling. As he comes back down, he notices the pressure on his ribs, the throb of a new bite on his shoulder from Jordan’s teeth, the ache where Jordan’s fingers are still dug into his hips. It makes him shiver, clenching down once again -- which makes Jordan shove in deeper and clutch at him impossibly harder.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jordan’s saying, _still_ coming. He kisses at John’s back and goes lax enough that John’s mildly worried that they’re going to collapse to the tile. 

“Oh, my god, Johnny.” He laughs, high and delirious, and says, “Fuck,” unplastering his chest from John’s sweaty back.

John finally drags his face up off the counter, laughing as he wipes at the drool with the back of his hand.

“So, uh,” Jordan says, “You wanna text management or should I?”

Still muzzy, John says, “Mmm?” and tries to push himself up onto shaky elbows, a hair's breadth away from purring.

“Preheat, babe,” he explains, and --

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Jordan presses a kiss to John’s back again. “Don’t think we’ll be at practice tomorrow.”

John, clearly too blissed out with Jordan’s knot in his ass, just shrugs. There’s a _lot_ of oxytocin flowing at the moment. “You can text,” he says. For just a moment, John thinks he’d be content enough to fall asleep here, to wake up being knotted all over again -- even with his ribs getting bruised against the edge of the counter -- but then reality sets in, and he realizes that the ice is melting, there’s fruit all over the floor, and he’s knotted while _standing_ after a pretty grueling day.

He hears the huff of a breath, the audible sign of a frown. “We maybe didn’t think this all the way through,” Jordan says.

Laughing, John says, “You think?” over his shoulder and shifts, wincing at the way Jordan’s knot tugs on his rim.

Jordan buries his giggle into John’s skin. “You want off,” he says more than asks, and at John’s nod, he starts the process of slipping a couple of fingers in around his knot, tugging as gently as he can to free himself from John’s hole. It clenches around nothing, but -- hell, if he’s going into heat, maybe he can just convince Jordan to knot him against when they actually make it to bed. He can definitely fall asleep like that.

“Thanks, J,” he says, turning on shaky legs until he can collapse into Jordan’s arms. “That was --” It’s a high giggle, he knows, but Jordan’s right there laughing with him.

“It was, wasn’t it?” he teases. He smacks a kiss to John’s temple and -- John starts purring, the loud, uncontrollable kind that means he’s going to be non-verbal for a bit. It makes Jordan huff another laugh, his scent fond as ever. “Yeah,” he says, “Alright. Shakes, then bed?”

John nods and, after one more smacking kiss, Jordan releases him to go salvage the scattered fruits while he works on gathering up their clothes strewn all over the place.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, you can find me on [tumblr](http://onceuponamoonfic.tumblr.com) ❤️


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